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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385144">Wanting and Not Wanting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_drop_lantana/pseuds/Lemon_drop_lantana'>Lemon_drop_lantana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Compilation of Final Fantasy VII</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recovery, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:36:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,704</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_drop_lantana/pseuds/Lemon_drop_lantana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reno wants to have sex.  And doesn't.  It's complicated.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Reno/Rude (Compilation of FFVII)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You don’t like it, but sometimes you need it. Sometimes your hand just doesn’t cut it. Doesn’t take the edge off or even feels worse than someone else's.</p><p>It’s weird, wanting it and not wanting it at the same time. You don’t want to be broken. You’re <em>not broken. </em>It’s just that you don’t like to be touched. Don’t like to feel the way that you feel when you’re touched. All the ways—because there’s a lot of them. And yet, you still want it enough that (sometimes) you go out and find it. </p><p>Rude is convenient. And he’s nice to you in his way. You admit that nice is… a nice bonus. Or maybe the word is safe. Despite the things he does—you both do—at work, Rude is safer than any partner you’ve ever had. </p><p>Rude is safe and he likes you. You can tell by the way his gaze feels heavy on your skin, even without seeing his eyes. You can always tell when someone wants you.</p><p>He won’t do anything because he’s too <em>professional.</em> He never touches you—not even a hand on the shoulder. Not even in a crowded elevator. So you don’t have to worry about it. </p><p>And you don’t worry about it. But one night—when you’re lonely—he seems convenient. When you’re feeling like maybe you’re not as broken as you thought. When you’ve forgotten how most people feel about sex. When it’s been too long and the need feels like unpleasant hunger and the thought of your own touch makes you sick. You put a hand on his arm and let that old way of being slide over you like a uniform you’ve never gotten rid of.</p><p>You give him a look. It’s fake, even though your intention is real. And he buys it.</p><p>He takes you home to his place.</p><p>He kisses you and you let him for as long as you can take it until the taste of scotch (which you like) is too much and his presence is too close (crushing you inside of your own skin) and you turn over and press your face into the sheets and try to forget he’s there. While all the while he’s trying to remind you that he is.</p><p>He’s trying to do it the right way, but he doesn’t know what that means for you. And so he’s kind and the touch is soft and you make the sounds that you’re supposed to make hoping to hurry things along.</p><p>It hurts some, eventually. He’s as big as you expected (he’s a big guy) and you’ve never been much for relaxing. The pain is bad in that it reminds you of other pain from other times. It’s good that it wipes any thought of performing from your mind for a few minutes until it fades away.</p><p>He’s smooth and slow and steady and attentive to your dick and you come faster and easier than you expect.</p><p>Maybe you make a pretty sound because he comes quickly too and you count your blessings for that. You can feel all his desire in the way he touches you and it starts to feel like you might smother under the weight of him, even though his weight isn’t on you in the slightest. Only his hand smoothing along the side of your ribs like he’s soothing an animal.</p><p>You turn over to look at him when he’s done because you feel like you owe him that. You had hoped this could be easy and uncomplicated, but you’re an idiot and he's looking at you far too carefully. </p><p>He's trying to figure this out.</p><p>You needed it and you took it, but (if you’re honest with yourself) it’s clear that he was hurt. You can’t control the look on your face when you’re done, but neither can he.</p><p>You decide to go somewhere else after that. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>////</p><p> </p><p>Things aren’t weird. You can’t remember what was said afterwards. What you said or what he said.</p><p>
  <em>Thanks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorry.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>See ya tomorrow.</em>
</p><p>But whatever was said, that was the last of it. Rude doesn’t bring it up again. And he still doesn’t touch you, but now he does it even more carefully than before.</p><p>You don’t think about that night just like you don’t think about all the other nights. But you do wonder if <em>he </em>thinks about it. Because you don’t feel the same weight from his eyes anymore.</p><p>Maybe the sex was worse for him than it was for you. Because it wasn’t actually so bad for you in the grand scheme of things.</p><p>He’s good looking and he’s nice to you. Was nice to you. You look at his arms sometimes, and remember how gently he held you and think that he wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>////</p><p> </p><p>And now, months later, you’re stuck in a hotel room with him on assignment far away from home. No, this is home for the next few months. Better get used to it.</p><p>Tseng is here too and <em>he</em> doesn’t have to share a room but he’s your boss after all, so you don’t question it. You all take turns guarding the VP and it’s boring as shit.</p><p>It’s less boring in your room, where Rude comes out of the shower every night shirtless and only in low-slung pants that show off the dips between his abs and hip bones. He sleeps shirtless and you can’t sleep at all.</p><p>His presence fills the room. His quiet, steady breath. The scent of his shaving soap. The static of his body making the air feel electric. He’s so muscular that it ought to alarm you, except you know that all that muscle keeps you safe more than anything.</p><p>You’re not sure you’ve ever really touched him, even when you fucked. And that suddenly seems like a shame.</p><p>All his stuff is put neatly away in drawers and all your stuff is scattered over the bed and dresser and floor and it still feels to you like it’s <em>his</em> room. You can’t sleep in his room. It’s even hard to nap when he’s out on duty and you can be completely alone and safe during the day. </p><p>After about two weeks it’s wearing at you. And you’re afraid you’re it’s going to wear a hole straight through your professional demeanor. It’s late at night and you can’t tell if you’re anxious or horny (they feel so similar) but there’s no way you’re going to sleep while he’s one bed away. Breathing calmly and not looking at you or talking to you or touching you (which are all the right things). Just laying there untouchable and appealing.</p><p>And you’re not about to jerk off. So you roll out of bed and fumble around for the keycard which you either left on the dresser or the nightstand (it is actually in your jacket pocket) and you head for the door.</p><p>You realize he’s not asleep when he clears his throat as you pass in front of his bed. Always with the warnings, this guy. He says, “I won’t touch you.”</p><p>Of course he noticed. Noticed how carefully you keep space between you. Waiting until he’s safely in bed so you can make it into the bathroom without passing by too closely. It’s nice to hear him say it, even though you already know it.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>It’s just that that’s not the problem. Or not all of it. The problem is that you do and don’t want him to touch you but also you need <em>somebody</em> to touch you and so you’re going out to find someone or to find a bottle of vodka so you can finally get some goddamn sleep. Because you’re reaching the end of how long you can go without.</p><p>“But I would if you wanted. However you wanted.”</p><p>Oh, he would.</p><p>It’s quiet as you process this offer. You’re not sure what to make of it.</p><p>“You’re not sleeping.”</p><p>Does the man notice <em>everything?</em> You’ve at least been laying quietly all night.</p><p>“I have trouble sleeping sometimes.” Plenty of times.</p><p>“Can I help?”</p><p>The light clicks on. It’s dim but you still blink against the surprise and then you see him. Sitting up in bed and gorgeous. <em>Of course you want him to help you. </em>You tongue over your lower lip as you think about it.</p><p>“Maybe.” Maybe if you’re selfish enough to take from him again. But you’re tired and he offered. So. So let’s see what he’s got.</p><p>He coaxes you to lay back down in your bed. Every movement signaled and slow, he sits on the edge and fishes out your cock which has been stirring since he came out of the shower. And then he jerks you off while you’re still ninety-five percent dressed. His hand is firm and steady. It’s gentle, but efficient.</p><p>When you ask, he turns out the light on the nightstand between your beds. You close your eyes and place both hands on your chest and let him and it’s nice. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else. Doesn’t kiss you or talk to you. His hand works better than your own, but you can forget he’s there. Forget it’s his hand or anyone’s hand at all. It’s just… pleasure and more pleasure that builds solid and warm in your core until it overflows.</p><p>It feels very clean, getting off to this semi-disembodied hand Rude has offered you. Almost relaxing.</p><p>He wipes your cum off his skin with tissue and finally asks when your breathing is slow.</p><p>“Feel better?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>You sit up and lay a hand on his crotch. You understand fairness after all and he did this weird thing as a favor to you. Because, somehow, he put a lot of it together on his own.</p><p>He isn’t hard a all.</p><p>“No need,” he says and gets back into his own bed. You realize you might have missed your opportunity to touch his chest.</p><p>But you finally get to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>He does it a few more times and you’re sleeping better. It makes you wonder how he’s seen through you so thoroughly, and just how much space he’s willing to make for your particular brand of odd. You try to remind yourself that Rude is odd too. The man barely speaks. And Tseng is definitely odd and this is all fine.</p><p>It seems fine. As casual and simple as any other exchange between the two of you.</p><p>“Can you…”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Can you pass me the ammo? Can you order me a beer? Can you jack me off? Your tentative question. His calm response. And then his hand and you haven’t had it this good since before you had it ever. You don’t feel sick at all.</p><p>Once, your leg moves without intention when you come and presses against his. Warm and still and firm. That seems fine too, actually.</p><p>You don’t touch him and you wonder if he’s touching himself or if maybe he’s finding someone else to take care of his dick. Man like that has options.</p><p>You get something of an answer one Wednesday when you come storming back into the room, irritated that you forgot your wallet and Tseng refused to buy you lunch. You sweep into the room, striding to the chair in the back corner where yesterday’s pants lay crumpled, and retrieve it. And then you spin back and you’re already moving when you realize Rude is here.</p><p>He’s naked in his own bed with his hand wrapped around himself. He could move his hand or throw a blanket over his lap, but neither would hide the fact that he’s fully erect so he doesn’t bother. He shrugs his shoulders and twists his lips as if to say, <em>Oh well.</em></p><p>You blink and think you should probably get out of here, but your voice is working ahead of your brain.</p><p>“Can I watch?”</p><p>You ask because you’re selfish and you want to know what pleasure looks like when it’s less complicated. You’re selfish and he seems always willing to let you be. You’re selfish and he’s already indulging your body so maybe he’ll indulge your curiosity too.</p><p>His answer comes slower than the <em>Sure</em> you are used to. This isn’t quite as simple for him, but eventually, he says, “Okay.”</p><p>You sit on the end of the bed and he closes his eyes and you watch him stroke his cock. It’s a different motion than he uses on you. A bit harder and you think you might like it. When he breathes out between full lips all the muscles in his abdomen tighten slightly and that’s particularly nice.</p><p>Rude looks good, in pleasure. His movements are subtle but you’re paying attention and you can see the way he’s pressing the back of his head against the headboard. Tipping up his jaw slightly and showing you just a fraction more of his throat. The way his thighs and glutes tighten. You keep your eyes there, with his hand sliding up and down just on the edge of your vision, curving over the head. </p><p>“Do you ever think about me?” you ask. Because you’re worse than broken and selfish. You’re also cruel.</p><p>His answer comes easily again. Either it doesn’t matter or he’s not thinking about it very carefully. His gaze is hot as it traces up from your hip to your jaw and then meets your eyes before his close again. You suppose he is now. </p><p>“Sometimes.” His voice is so low and deep it feels like it has <span class="found decorator">gravity</span> of its own and you lean forward slightly.</p><p>“What do you think about?”</p><p>Just turn the knife. You’re expecting something specific like he thinks about coming on your face or holding you down. What he says is specific in a different way.</p><p>“I think about you liking it.”</p><p>Ah. That’s a harder fantasy to deliver on. But his voice still has that <em>pull</em> and you scoot closer. You think about laying a hand on his leg to feel his thigh tense. His legs look about as big around as your waist. You’re still thinking about it when his breath catches in his throat and you remember that sound and realize time is running out. So you slide your hand onto his thigh, marveling at how smooth and warm his skin is. You’re almost at his hip before you stop and he’s already coming, groaning quietly and wringing the last drops out of himself.</p><p>He watches you, watching his cock, until he finally lets it fall, spent, onto his thigh, but not too close to your hand.</p><p>Your eyes meet and he looks curious. “Well. What’d you think?”</p><p>“I liked it.” </p><p>It’s the truth. You did. He didn’t ask anything of you and he looked good doing it. You start to wonder if you can give him more than nothing.</p><p> </p><p>////</p><p> </p><p>His hand stops working so well and it’s because you’re thinking too much. It’s easy to recognize, but how do you <em>stop </em>it? It’s impossible to stop thinking about how much you’re thinking about the things that you wish you weren’t.</p><p>
  <em>Should you try? Try to stop? Try for more?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>You realize you’re limp in his hand and he finally pauses and moves the hand away. But he’s still sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, waiting for you to say something. You wait long enough that he speaks first.</p><p>“Too tired?”</p><p>“I dunno.” (No, you’re not).</p><p>He’s silent but present with you. Focused on you. “You want my mouth?”</p><p>“NO.” You’ve practically yelled at him and it’s embarrassing. The concept has its appeal but makes you want to crawl out of your skin. It’s too much closeness and you know very well how much work it can be and why is he <em>giving you so much? </em>It’s making you mad because the longer this goes on, the more he does, the more you realize you’re not gonna be able to make it even.</p><p>“Stop bein’ so fuckin’ selfless.” He just keeps giving and you’re just gonna keep taking until you hate the both of you.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything but you can feel his irritation. And there’s just enough light from the window that you can see it too, in the set of his mouth.</p><p>“What’s in it for you? There’s gotta be something. This isn’t how grown men do things. You really wanna be jerkin’ me off with nothing in return?”</p><p>Rude says nothing. <em>Why is it so hard for him to fucking </em>talk?</p><p>You give him a sharp push on the chest and he stands up quickly, moving off the edge of the bed. “What do you <em>want?”</em></p><p>Finally, he responds. “I wanna fuck you. And I want you to like it. Thought this would help.”</p><p>And there it is. Rude was being selfish the whole time, too. He may have changed the way he looked at you, but you guess he didn’t stop wanting you after all. </p><p>So you’ve both been taking from each other. </p><p><em>Is that right?</em> You can’t tell anymore. </p><p>Is it possible to do this, whatever either one of you is doing, without being selfish? Is there any scenario you can imagine where he isn't either your villain or your victim?</p><p>You’re still spinning in your head thinking through whether there are any healthy versions of sexual relationships that could involve you, when you realize he’s already climbed back into his bed and you can hear the rustle of the sheets as he pulls them up over his body. </p><p>You say, “That’s not likely to happen, partner.”</p><p>“Do you want it to?”</p><p><em>Oh shit.</em> That cuts into you. <em>Do you want it to? Do you want to have sex that doesn’t hurt somebody? </em>And if so, does that mean you should ‘work on it’ the same way that he, apparently, has been working on you?</p><p>Or, should you leave everything be and just accept that you’re still breathing and employed and that there’s alcohol in the world and also cheeseburgers and let all of that be enough?</p><p>You don’t answer his question and instead say, “You’re wasting your time.”</p><p>“It’s mine to waste.”</p><p>It is.</p><p>“But I won’t touch you if you don’t want.”</p><p>Of course he won’t. You’re almost tired of hearing it. And now what? Now you’re supposed to make a decision about this topic you’ve been avoiding thinking about for about a decade? No thanks. So you roll over to face away from him, close your eyes, and lay still until morning.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re both so good at ignoring what happened last night it’s shocking. When the sun comes up you rise and dress and act like functional human beings who aren’t working hard to avoid bumping into each other or the fact that you’re too fucked up to fuck.</p><p>Rude acts like everything is fine and for all you know he <em>is </em>fine. But now, for the first time in this partnership, you don’t feel fine.</p><p>You feel sad.</p><p>Rude said so few words and yet somehow, last night, he hit on a few that stick in your skin like splinters.</p><p>
  <em>Do you want it to?</em>
</p><p>Do you want to feel differently? To <em>like it?</em></p><p>He probably didn’t mean it this way, but now you feel like it’s your fault. Like maybe if you <em>wanted </em>to be different, you could be.</p><p>Like it’s you who’s holding onto the memories instead of the other way around. And maybe you could just open your hand and let go.</p><p>It’s bullshit. It might be bullshit. Either way, you’re sad.</p><p>Sad enough to creep off to a bar down the street (the hotel bar is too close) and drink by yourself.</p><p>You stop drinking while you can still walk straight (maybe) and you’re gonna walk home and it’s windy and dark outside and you might not be walking as straight as you think because you’ve managed to scrape your cheek on a brick wall and it’s not much further now you just have to make it up to the room and there’s a keycard in your hand but you can’t find the place to put it in the elevator and…</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>…and you wake up too miserable to move with your face smushed up against something warm.</p><p>It’s Rude’s shoulder.</p><p>This is his bed.</p><p>You piece things together bit by bit as your eyes crack open. He’s flat on his back. You’re curled by his side, face pressed into his deltoid like you fell forward into him. You have no idea when you made it back to the room last night, but the sun is just rising and you can see a sliver of yellow light from between the curtains.</p><p>His body shifts and you think he might be looking at you. You swallow a mouthful of drool.</p><p>“Did we fuck?” you ask.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Did we do other things?” He could have. You wouldn’t even mind if he took back something from you. He’s owed.</p><p>“Just this.”</p><p>It’s been a long time since you slept in a bed with someone. Though it probably doesn’t count if you’re blackout drunk.</p><p>“Did I talk?”</p><p>“Yeah, but I couldn’t understand much.”</p><p>You shift your head back slightly and squinch your face at the pain behind your eyes. Your cheeks feel tight. When you press your lips together they taste salty. “Did I cry?”</p><p>He swallows and you interpret that to mean you cried a lot. You certainly have the headache for it.</p><p>“You got blood on my sheets,” he notes, looking over at you.</p><p>You can see a smear of it on his arm too. “Why didn’t you sleep in my bed?”</p><p>He gives you a funny look and nods his head towards your arms. They’re wrapped around his bicep, holding on.</p><p>You remove yourself from him, peeling skin off skin carefully, as if you want to make sure you don’t leave anything behind, and move back to sit with your chin on your knees.</p><p>Rude stretches out his arm now that it’s free, and then his whole body, tensing and relaxing in a way you’re not sure you ever do. He looks over at you.</p><p>“Feel better?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Now he’s looking up at the ceiling and you wonder if he’s given you up as a lost cause.</p><p>“No, but I’d like to.” <em>I’d like to like it,</em> is what you really mean.<em> With you</em> is implied.</p><p>And you know he understands, but you’re not hoping yet. It’s not like you haven’t tried before. You’ve tried. You’ve fucked a lot of guys over the years and it hasn’t gotten any better. You haven’t fixed yourself.</p><p>But you haven’t let someone else try to fix you, either. You mostly haven’t let anyone know you were broken to begin with. Maybe he’s got some ideas.</p><p>He looks back at you the same way he always does and you were expecting something different. Something more. Like maybe he’d want to fuck you immediately.</p><p>Instead he says, “Go shower. You need it. And sleep. I’ll take your shift.”</p><p>Dammit. There he goes, giving again.</p><p> </p><p>////</p><p> </p><p>You shower and you call housekeeping for clean sheets because you're trying to be less awful. You're down to relieve him by lunch time. Tseng takes over after dinner. He always takes the night shift and nobody is dumb enough to ask why.</p><p>And that means that Rude is the room when you finally make it back. He’s laying on the bed reading with his shirt off—and you wonder if he’s noticed how you look at his chest. He notices a lot.</p><p>He nods at you when you come in, and that’s it. He’s giving you space to peel off your gloves and your jacket. To wash your hands. To undo your tie and flop on the bed. And then you’ve run out of things to do. You’ve hit the point in the evening where you’d normally turn on the TV to something mindless. Or.</p><p>Or what.</p><p>“Rude.” He puts down his book. You love looking at him without his sunglasses but you only give yourself three seconds before you force your eyes away.</p><p>If this doesn’t work, if he doesn’t work, you’re sure nothing will.</p><p>“Do ya wanna…”</p><p>“Yes.” He says it with certainty. <em>He wants to. </em>So you scoot over on the bed to make enough room for him and he comes to sit close to you. But not too close.</p><p>“What do you—”</p><p>You cut him off. “Do something <em>you</em> want.” Because you’ve taken enough and if you’re here to do something different you might as well not have to choose.</p><p>He gives you a thoughtful look. “Can I massage you? Here?” He touches two fingers to your shoulder.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>He moves those fingers to graze along your chest. “Here?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>He lifts them to trace over the side of your neck and you stiffen instinctively. “Not here,” he says to the both of you.</p><p>And then he works you over good. You <em>are </em>sore (relaxing never was your thing) and he’s got some natural talent here for sure. It feels good, but it’s not sexy, even when he presses his fingers into your pecs. He stays up near your clavicle and you begin to get impatient. If he’s gonna fix you, he had better get started.</p><p>“You going somewhere with this?”</p><p>Apparently not. He says, “Can I touch you here?” and traces his fingers down your arm and wrist and all the way down the edge of your thumb.</p><p>“Sure.” His hands begin moving, stroking down past your elbow and forearm, strong enough that your fingers curl each time he grasps you. “You can stop asking.”</p><p>“No.” He watches you closely as his hands trace over your wrist. They’re big enough to circle around you arm and hold it, but he doesn’t. He moves past your wrist and digs his thumbs into the palm of your left hand.</p><p>It feels so good you make a little sound, wholly unintended. It’s almost embarrassing. “We’ve actually fucked,” you remind him, meeting his eyes. “I think I can handle you touching my arm.”</p><p>The light is still on and it’s a bit too stark. You can see him assessing you. “I don’t want to do more damage.”</p><p>“Do you think I’m damaged?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He says it plainly, like you’re an idiot for asking the question. That’s Rude. Never one to use twenty words when one can make you feel just the same, only faster. You’re still swallowing that word down when he slides your index finger between his lips. His mouth is soft and warm and you can feel his tongue curling around the tip of your finger.</p><p>He didn’t ask but it feels… not bad, anyway. You can’t remember anyone else doing this to you. Sucking on your fingers, gently, one at a time. His lips feel pillow-soft and his teeth scrape slightly over the pads. Rude lets his other hand lay on your stomach and you let your breath carry it up and down.</p><p>“You gonna touch my cock?” you ask finally, after realizing that you’re hard. His mouth feels surprisingly good on your fingers and you’ve been wondering if it could feel as uncomplicated on the tip of your cock.</p><p>“I can,” he offers. And you’re starting to wish he <em>would</em>, but then he says, “look at me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’ll need to stop pretending I’m not here,” he tells you as he unbuttons your pants with one hand.</p><p><em>This might not work,</em> you think to yourself. “Why are you bothering with all this? Just find somebody <em>not</em> damaged to fuck.”</p><p>“I want you,” he says, just as plainly as he admitted you were damaged. As if neither one of those things matters much. And then he wraps his hand around your cock, twisting upward. You try to keep your eyes open even though they feel heavy.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He shrugs and says, “Who knows.” You like the way his lips curve up at the side. And then he puts your fingers back in his your mouth and you watch his cheeks hollow the tiniest bit as he sucks. You can’t help but think of that soft warmth replacing his hand as his fingers tighten over the head of your cock and before you even know what’s happening you’re spurting over his hand with a groan that’s completely unpracticed. Your mind isn’t blank at all. You’re seeing his lips on your cock and you <em>like it.</em></p><p>Rude looks extremely satisfied when you glance back up at his face and his chest expanding with deep, slow breaths. You feel sure he’s hard this time.</p><p>“Next time,” you start and then fade off because you’re not sure you mean it. But you push the words out because you should give him whatever scraps you can. “Next time, your mouth.” You can’t fucking believe you’re blushing at this. “But only… only like.”</p><p>“Like your fingers?” he asks.</p><p>You nod.</p><p>“Okay.” He moves to stand up but you grab his wrist.</p><p>“Why don’t you…” you look down at his crotch. He is <em>definitely</em> hard—the bulge clear in his sweats.</p><p>“Here?”</p><p>You scoot over and make room for him to lay down in your bed. “Here.”</p><p>You watch him jerk himself off, laying close but not touching. Except for your hand. You put it on his stomach because his abs are so gorgeous when he breathes. Everything about him is, and you actually like touching—moving your hand slowly over the contours of him—until he comes and some of it lands on your hand.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says as he cleans you off with a tissue while his cock is still twitching.</p><p>“It’s fine,” you say. Except your hands have started shaking and you’re not sure exactly why but you also feel very cold.</p><p>He’s looking at you carefully again and you’re starting to get used to it. “Do you want me to hold you?”</p><p>“Not now,” you say, trying to stay calm. Trying not to run into the bathroom and lock the door.</p><p>This was fine. It was completely fine and even a bit good, you tell yourself. But you’re still relieved when Rude immediately gets out of your bed and goes into the bathroom himself and shuts the door.</p><p>Your system calms down with the privacy. You remind yourself that Rude is safe and he didn’t do anything you didn’t want him to. Nothing. He felt good.</p><p> </p><p>////</p><p> </p><p>Rude treats you like you’re a job, and you gotta admit, it’s not bad. It works. It’s kind of weird the way he studies you so closely. He refuses to turn the light out because he wants to watch you when he touches you. So he can stop at the slightest stutter. The way he looks at you isn’t tender and it isn’t pitying. It’s careful and you think that’s what affection looks like from Rude.</p><p>He asks one day, “What is it you’re afraid of?” and it’s not a rhetorical question. He wants to know exactly what scenario makes you flinch sometimes when he touches you—even after he asks. </p><p>Your faces are close together as you lay on your sides in your bed. He’s touching your cock and you’re touching his, only just barely. Just your fingertips. You whisper back your answer. </p><p><em>You’ll hurt me. </em>That’s the oldest reason. </p><p><em>I’ll hurt you</em>. That one’s newer.</p><p>His thumb traces over your lower lip. “What else?” He can tell there’s something else. A new reason. You won’t tell him, but the thing you’re most afraid of is that you’re way too broken to ever be fixed.</p><p>You don’t want to say that so instead you say, “Kiss me?”</p><p>He hasn’t kissed you since that first time which was so long ago you can barely remember it now. But you have been thinking about it. His lips are so soft on your fingers. Felt even softer when he sucked on the head of your cock.</p><p>“Do you actually want to? Or just not to answer the question?”</p><p>“I want to,” you say quickly. And it’s true. You haven’t lied to him once since the two of you agreed to do this together.</p><p>Rude closes his eyes for a minute, and when they open again they’re soft. So soft it’s painful and you realize suddenly that this is something he <em>wants. </em>It means something to him and that makes you feel nervous. But before you can worry more about that, he shifts forward and presses his mouth against yours.</p><p>It feels good. He tastes good and his lips are just as soft as you thought and it doesn’t make your mind run. It occurs to you that part of the reason this is so enjoyable is that you know he’s not expecting to fuck you. And that’s nice. </p><p>It’s uncomplicated and your eyes sting when you realize just how uncomplicated he’s made everything. His kiss is just a kiss. His hand on your cock is only that. There’s never the expectation of more.</p><p>For most of your life it’s been easy to just let people take what they wanted from you. But you realize Rude isn’t willing to take anything. And that means you have to actually figure out what to <em>give</em> him. Like a kiss. And you want to give him more.</p><p>You grip his cock and stroke him with purpose and he shudders against you. You haven’t touched him like that before. You’ve never gotten him off and he pulls back to look at you. You can see his hesitation. His careful study. He doesn’t trust you not to let him do more damage and you suppose you can understand.</p><p>“I want to,” you say. “I want to.” You pull his head close again. You stroke his cock and kiss his lips and when he pants out a warning you tell him <em>go ahead, I want you to.</em></p><p>He comes on your hand and the sheets and you smile at him as he cleans you up with a washcloth. You don’t remember wanting to kiss anyone.</p><p>He's still looking at you warily, but eventually, he smiles back. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/LemonDropLan"> @lemondroplan </a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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